


A Requiem

by wordslinger



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Crimson Flower Route, Edeleth, F/F, Female Byleth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21528496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordslinger/pseuds/wordslinger
Summary: Byleth has lost count of how many times she's been asked which piece is the Emperor's favorite. An answer perches on the tip of her tongue ready to fall from her lips as if the words are the most natural truth in the world.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & My Unit | Byleth, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 6
Kudos: 138





	A Requiem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thir13enth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thir13enth/gifts).



> Yes. Hello. I live. Wild I know.
> 
> For thir13enth. She knows what she did.

Byleth has lost count of how many times she’s been asked which piece is the Emperor’s favorite. Edelgard’s love of the piano is well known but inquiring minds are always after the finer details. An answer perches on the tip of her tongue ready to fall from her lips as if the words are the most natural truth in the world.

* * *

Delicate silver light streams from the cut glass windows that line the high walls. Streaks of it slice through the air like ribbon-thin blades vibrating to the tempo of the music. Edelgard is a vision of purple and white.

The moonlight suits her.

The way it touches – _kisses_ – her skin, gliding from shoulder to wrist… _yes._ What an exquisite dalliance. Byleth draws her knees to her chest and sighs as Edelgard’s posture changes. The shoulder of her robe slides down to the bend of her elbow. A strand of hair follows. Byleth’s fingers itch to drag through it, knots and all.

She is staring and can’t be bothered to not. The sound of a gasp echoes in her memory. A flash of her hand closing around a wrist and the swell of flesh in her palm. Tangles of silver.

Edelgard’s fingers are nimble and brush over the keys with effortless perfection. Byleth’s eyes stray to the side table. A collection of empty vials gives her pause. The sonata rises for a final time and Byleth feels the weight of all the advisors and herbalists and physicians and so many scrolls. _Maybe she should…_

But then she blinks and the mood shifts.

Notes so familiar Byleth wonders if she can play them herself drift across the room. Her chest never fails to tighten at the end when the music unravels. The loss of such an intricate weave of music always leaves her feeling both empty and grateful. It is her most favorite.

She has been watching Edelgard play her midnight music for what feels both like an eternity and not long enough. The science of timing is something she understands inside and out. Byleth knows exactly when to toss aside the sheets and let the floor tiles chill the soles of her feet. She could make her way through the stacks of books and tea tables littered with glasses and scrolls and paperweights in pitch black.

And she knows at what precise moment to stretch her arm out so that her fingertips brush against the back of her lover’s neck. 

At her touch, Edelgard leaves the final note unplayed. She whirls around on the bench and her hand presses against Byleth’s as it settles on her cheek. The lace edge of her robe falls further, exposing the round curve of her breast. Her eyes are pleading.

The kiss starts as something gentle Byleth drops on Edelgard’s upturned lips but twists into something decidedly

_insistent._

Edelgard’s knees inch apart and Byleth steps between them. The invitation is a hitched breath and excited pulse. Between her thighs is soft and Byleth finds her pliant and ready.

She prefers Edelgard with her robe on the floor, and there is something in the way she sucks in breaths so deep her breasts heave and her thighs quiver that makes Byleth think the preference is mutual. With her backside pressed against the ridges of the keys and fall board, and one knee draped over Byleth’s shoulder, Edelgard finds something she needs.

Byleth fights back the whispers and the vials and the dark circles under Edelgard’s eyes. The smile on her lips when she’s spent and pressing damp kisses to Byleth’s neck is enough.

It _is._

The emptiness behind her closed eyes is too bleak and she begins to count Edelgard’s breaths.

* * *

“The Moonlight Sonata,” Byleth says distractedly. Her attention is all the way across the ballroom and caught on the way the Emperor’s chin tilts as she pretends to listen to the conversation at hand.

Without warning Edelgard’s eyes connect with hers. Her half smile is a combination of affection and embarrassment at having been caught. _This_ Edelgard plays something other than complex layers of melancholy descent. She smiles and blushes and sometimes whispers, _Professor,_ when it suits her purpose.

_This_ Edelgard is learning that love doesn’t always have to hurt. She can, nearly perfectly, play an infinite number of sonatas and nocturnes to tug on the very threads of a soul, _but for Byleth?_

Lost in the clutter strewn about the chambers she shares with Byleth are at least eleven variations of the famous Canon in D Major.

The Emperor’s favorite hadn’t ever been the music.


End file.
